


Arise, Lazarus

by Tchailenova



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A very personal introspection and examination, Gen, Mentions of hell, Spoilers for Season 4.01, Spoils Season 3 finale, The first scenes of 4.01 told from Dean's perspective, he's a little broken and a bit not okay, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 09:40:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8200403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tchailenova/pseuds/Tchailenova
Summary: Dean's tour of hell left some lasting marks behind, even if the skin of his new body is almost perfectly unblemished. His return to civilization is fraught with discoveries, difficulties, and uncomfortably persistent miracles, and that solitude lends itself quite well to some less-than-strictly-welcome thoughts and self-analysis.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have always been curious about Dean's thoughts and feelings, and I decided to do some extended analysis and character development. This is one of the scenes I like to play through and consider. I'll probably do more of these, since I can hardly stop myself from wondering about it anyway.
> 
> The rating is maybe a little excessive, but the kinds of things that Dean experienced in Hell aren't nice and fluffy - and as such warranted a more severe rating. There are no sexy-time themes, nor is there cursing (a rarity, where Dean is concerned, I'm aware). This is more of a psychological-mature rating, light as it is relative to some things I've read and seen. If you've seen the show, you're probably alright.
> 
> That said, I do include a bit of very brief, though deeply detailed, gore and torture references. If those things are likely to bother you, then I want you to be forewarned.  
> I do not own the show Supernatural, and I can only claim my guesses at what's going on in Dean's head as he progresses through these scenes.
> 
> Now that we've all been properly warned and apprised, on to the story proper!

He burst from the ground, sucking in air - sweeter and cleaner than he remembered - like it was absolutely necessary (which was true, but he’d spent so long without the need for air it was still a foreign sensation). He pulled himself out of his grave (his own _grave_ ) and luxuriated in the clean, unsullied stretch and strain of muscles under his own skin. He hardly remembered what it was to exert himself in a physical body. Luckily, it seemed his body had no such problems, even though it should have been rotted and eaten through after such a long time in a simple pine box.

The air around him was a luxury, and he paused for a moment, just feeling it, mesmerized by the simple action of the bellows in his chest.

A memory, slick and soft, bubbled up helpfully, reminding him what it actually looked like on the inside: all heaving reds and pink-browns, moving to fill lungs with air they didn’t need only so they could scream it out again, chased by pain -

He stopped himself, forcibly wrenched the memory away and shoved it behind a wall. Sickened, he doubled over and fought with himself, forced to kneel under the waves of nausea brought by the short blip of memories. Echoes of screams and chains slid into his ears and he dry-heaved, nothing in his stomach to expel.

When he came back to himself he looked around, trying to ground himself in the human practice (ancient history) of being _in_ a place. It had been so long since it mattered, but his body somehow remembered for him, head swivelling around to take in the forest and perfect-circle of downed trees - centered on his grave. The back of his neck tingled and reflexes he was having trouble focusing on urged him to leave. Power that was like -and unlike- a demonic presence inundated the area, and that as much as anything else spurred him into action.

So he walked, forest giving way to field, and then a road sliced through the wild grass. Dean stepped onto it. It felt right, the way coming home might have felt (if he could have accurately remembered what ‘home’ was like). The familiar feeling of cracked and chipped asphalt underneath him slipped smoothly into spaces he hadn’t been aware of for the past eternity - places which had become hollowed out in the fires of hell without him realizing. As quickly as he put words to those thoughts, he shoved them behind his mental wall, unwilling to examine them too closely.

The sun was hot and high in the sky, but it had nothing on many of his new memories (each of which burbled and groaned and fought for his attention, stealing it in snatches with clips of scenes; each of which he forced behind that same wall, which now he now desperately imagined to be covered in chains and locks). He had no way of knowing which way would lead to closer civilization on the road, and the sun was too high to orient himself with cardinal directions. That oppressive feeling of power seemed to hang stagnantly around him like a fog. It was an unnerving sensation; humming with energy different enough from hell to put him at ease, and unfamiliar and powerful enough to set him on edge.

Picking a direction arbitrarily, he turned down the road and walked, beating the pavement into a submission that grew more and more familiar with the more steps that he took. This was natural, an easy rhythm that took him further from his grave and the physical representation of his time in hell. He felt better for it, and the more time he spent on the road, the more his ancient memories came back to him, fighting through the red haze of pain, screams, and blood. They slipped and squeezed through the cracks and whizzed by his awareness like quicksilver without actually going anywhere. A phantom sense memory hovered just beneath his skin: the buzzing hum of the road beneath him, warmed leather seats, and the steering wheel of the Impala firm under his hand. It was uncomfortable, like the promise of relief held just out of reach for an eternity. Even so, this too was strangely familiar and he strove to embrace it just like all the other ancient sensations.

Dean smiled faintly, memories steadily returning more easily; they flickered by, triggered by similar cracks in the road (ubiquitous yet unique) or the peculiar curl of a cloud. The heat of the day, rough texture and firmness of the chip-seal, and his increasingly insistent physical needs grounded him in the present, in his physicality. As he walked, he kept breathing mindfully, in and out, a hand on his stomach to remind himself that the dull twisting pain there was hunger and not a knife; quietly, firmly, subtly asserting his humanity - a foreign yet welcome thing after so long... _without_.

The sight of a corner-store in the distance felt like a blessing, and the accompanying diminished presence of power was doing wonders for his nerves.

Eventually he got close enough to be sure it wasn’t a mirage, and he quickened his pace, eager to return to civilization.

Dozens of little miracles met him at the store: thin plate glass in the door, a payphone out front, and the hum of A/C announced an active power-line somehow still connecting the place to the grid - even though it seemed to otherwise be an abandoned shop. After clearing its few small rooms (a habit of long-ago), Dean came to realize that somehow it was also still well stocked, though it was clearly unattended, which was just as well because he didn’t have the money to pay for anything.

After satisfying his immediate bodily needs, curiosity drove him to the little bathroom. He hadn’t bothered to see if he still bore the scars of his previous life, but he knew he didn’t carry any of his scars or wounds from hell. They hadn’t even been persistent from day to day during that time, always disappearing completely when a blank canvas was desired. He shuddered with the half remembered screams of his own pain and silken praise dripping like acid from Alistair’s lips. Dean pushed those memories along with the others behind the wall with chains, locks, and firmly added a few scattered wards just for good measure.

Hesitantly lifting his shirt, he was surprised to see perfectly smooth skin, completely unblemished by the claws of the hounds. A flickering memory of hellhounds in a house with his brother flashed by and he snatched it and shoved it down with the others with a twisting scowl. As he pulled his shirt down, a rough pain on his shoulder drew his attention. Curious, he lifted his sleeve to inspect it. A persistent tingling pain had been fading in and out there, but all his old scars and aches had been suspiciously absent. Exactly in place of the tingling and slightly stinging irritation was a handprint-shaped burn. He delicately traced the edges, lighting up a physical pain that was just different enough from the soul-deep agony of hell to be a new sensation.

He wondered what it was and what it meant, and the familiar line of analytical thought evoked memories of once-typical methods of research and eventually led him to thoughts of Sam and Bobby. His heart clenched uncomfortably and he suddenly felt their absence like a physical pain.

Returning to the front counter, a newspaper stand caught his eye. The headline held no value for him, but the date was infinitely more important. As he read it, cold shock flooded him, sinking in his stomach like lead, tripping and tumbling along his veins. Four months. He’d hoped it hadn’t been the eternity it had felt like, had hoped that it hadn’t been so long that his family had died. But it had felt much longer than a third of a year, decades longer at least. At least his family was probably still alive.

He clung to that thought rebelliously, not liking to think about Sam having been left alone in that house full of demons, or all the hunts and stupid things his brother had likely thrown himself into in the interim. No. He shoved the thought of Sammy’s death away and screwed his eyes shut. His family had to be alive - it had only been four months. Dean deliberately ignored the kinds of trouble he and his brother had gotten into on a regular basis. Anything else was too raw and painful. To come back from a literal demonic hell, only to find himself in a living hell in a world where his family was dead? He didn’t want to think about the kind of person he’d become in that reality. He resolutely put those thoughts behind the wall with the rest, and turned his attention to reconnecting with the world he’d been pulled from.

Still feeling a little disconnected with reality, entirely because of time’s slippery nature, he tried the phone on the counter. There was no dial tone. Disappointment swelled and dissipated again as he remembered the phonebooth out front. Hope quickly bubbled up in its wake and he broke into the cash register for coins and travel money - there was no telling how long he’d be alone on the road, or how far away from South Dakota he was, or how long it would take them to meet him. He tried not to think too much about how he’d gotten out of hell, or what they might’ve done, or what that presence had been at his gravesite. He was going to have a long chat with Sammy about even having had a grave _at all_.

As though called by his recollection of it, while he pilfered the cash drawer the presence of power returned gently, like a slowly rising tide. There was a tingling at the back of his neck, and even though it hadn’t hurt him, that wasn’t near enough proof that it wouldn’t try the moment his guard was down. A moment later the television came on, staticky - like the antennae were disconnected, and he turned it off again with a tense frown. It came back on again a second later, joined by the radio, buzzing and crackling with interference and a strange insistence.

Driven by reflexes that were steadily coming back to him along with memories of a human life, Dean made for the salt. A high-pitched tone steadily increased in volume, along with the pressure of that strange power, something he’d only felt when a demon or a ghost was especially pissed at him and throwing him around like a ragdoll.

He frantically poured salt along the window panes, but the ledge was too small to easily hold any salt, and the tone soon became so loud that he collapsed to the ground and held his hands over his ears - feeling like they would pop and tear if he let go. Fear gripped him then, remembering that he no longer had an anti-possession ward. Cold realization settled along his bones and flitted across his nerves: if a demon wanted to take him for a walk, there’d be _nothing_ to stop it.

The windows shattered and the tone peaked before abruptly silencing. Left in sudden ringing silence, Dean gathered the bag with provisions that he’d pulled together, stuffed the rest of the money from the drawer into his pockets, and left the store with haste. The phonebooth also had power, thankfully, and he dialed Sam’s last phone number, the times from Before were easily recalled now that adrenaline was rushing madly through his veins and the most pressing memories of hell had been pushed back and locked safely away.

The number had been disconnected, though, and Dean felt something coil and twist inside him uncomfortably. Resetting the device and pushing in another coin, he dialed Bobby’s house - digits that had been burned into his head two eternities ago that he would never ever forget.

The line rang and Bobby’s gruff voice answered, easing an ache that had curled up next to Dean’s heart. Bobby didn’t believe it was him, though, and even when Dean called back again and again, he still didn’t believe. He couldn’t quite blame Bobby, but his chest tightened uncomfortably all the same.

Stubbornly, Dean decided that he’d just have to go and see him in person, physical evidence being harder to dismiss. Besides, he ached for familiarity. While the steady reminders of humanity were enough to keep his thoughts away from memories of hell, they were nothing against the curling emptiness along his sides - the even more constant reminders of his solitude.

He searched the property, not looking forward to walking to the next little spot of civilization, and another little miracle was revealed in the form of an old car. It probably wouldn’t run, but Dean stubbornly checked it, just in case. It came alive beneath him easily, purring beautifully, and that was yet another miracle in a pattern that Dean was beginning to anticipate with something akin to wary gratitude.

This car was different from his Baby, but she ate up the road beneath her all the same, and soon the differences faded away to subtle familiarity in the way the blacktop rushed by and the landscape whizzed past. His nerves relaxed, little by little, and Dean thought for a moment that maybe he’d rediscovered something essential to who he was - and maybe who he would be again, now. Being on the road definitely felt a bit like coming home, but it didn’t quite confer the same sensation of stability as the Impala. He missed Baby something fierce, and it drove his need for reunion even higher. Bobby’s house had been his only consistent haven after Lawrence, but his ‘ _home_ ’ would always be defined by something more ephemeral than four walls and a roof.

The warmth of the sun seeped into his skin in a persistently gentle way that the heat of hellfire never had. For the first time in more than an eternity, he felt safe and human in a way that he hadn’t been for far too long. He was finally going home.

**Author's Note:**

> Last, but by no measure least: many fervent thanks to my beta SableDreamer who helped me (on many occasions) to hone and polish this little thing into greatness.


End file.
